The Last Tram of the Night

In the late autumn of 1962, I was a young machinist fresh out of trade school, working the night shift at the Valmont textile mill. The pay was meager, but it allowed me to rent a small room in the old quarter of the city, a maze of cobblestone alleys and sagging buildings that smelled of coal smoke and damp stone. My only luxury was the weekly tram ride to the Grand Cinéma, where I would lose myself in the flickering images of heroes and heroines, far removed from the monotony of gears and looms.

That particular Saturday, the film was a French noir, a tale of a detective haunted by his past. The show ran late, and when I stepped out of the theater, the streets were empty and the fog had rolled in from the river, thick as soup. The last tram had come and gone, so I decided to walk the four kilometers to my lodgings. It was a familiar route, but something felt different that night. The gas lamps cast weak, yellow circles that seemed to swallow the darkness rather than dispel it, and my footsteps echoed louder than they should, as if the city itself were holding its breath.

I had taken up smoking to calm my nerves, a habit I was not proud of, but the warmth of the cigarette between my fingers was a comfort. I lit one and walked, the red tip glowing like a single eye in the gloom. My route took me through the old market district, where the stalls were covered with tarpaulins, their shadows contorting into bizarre shapes. I was about halfway home when I heard the sound of wheels on cobblestones ahead—a rhythmic clatter, growing steadily louder. I squinted into the fog and saw the silhouette of a tram emerging, its windows dark, not a single light on. It moved with a fluid ease, gliding like a snake, and to my astonishment, it slowed and stopped beside me, the doors hissing open.

I had never seen a tram run this late, and the darkness of its windows was unnerving. Yet, a strange lethargy overcame me, and I stepped inside without a second thought. The interior was lit by a single, flickering bulb at the far end, casting long, dancing shadows. The seats were old wooden benches, worn smooth by years of use, but there were no other passengers. The conductor, a stooped figure in a worn uniform, stood at the front, his face hidden beneath a cap. The doors closed behind me with a soft sigh, and the tram lurched forward, not with the familiar jerk of an electric motor, but with a smooth, almost liquid motion.

I took a seat near the back, placing my unlit cigarette in the ashtray attached to the window. The tram picked up speed, and the city outside blurred into a smear of grey and black. I noticed that the windows were not made of glass but of something darker, more reflective, and I could see my own gaunt face staring back at me. The conductor made no move to check tickets, and when I tried to catch his eye, he turned away, his features still obscured. The tram swayed gently, and I felt a drowsiness wash over me, my eyelids growing heavy. I fought it, but the rhythm of the wheels was hypnotic.

I must have dozed off, for when I opened my eyes, the tram had stopped. The interior was different; the walls were peeling, and the windows were smeared with grime. The conductor was gone, and the only light came from a pale, sickly glow that seemed to emanate from the floor. I stood up, my legs unsteady, and walked to the front of the tram. The doors were ajar, and I stepped out onto a platform that was all too familiar—it was the terminus of the No. 7 line, which had been shut down years ago because of a terrible accident. The fog had thickened, and the surrounding buildings were derelict, their windows boarded.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. I turned back to the tram, but it was gone, vanished into the mist as if it had never been. The silence was profound, broken only by the distant drip of water. I began to walk, hoping to find a familiar landmark, but every street looked the same, lined with abandoned warehouses and rusted machinery. After what seemed like an eternity, I stumbled upon a small café that was still open, its neon sign buzzing weakly. I pushed through the door, and the warmth hit me like a wave. The place was nearly empty, but a few old men sat at the counter, nursing drinks. I approached the waiter, a weary-looking fellow with a stained apron, and asked for directions to the old quarter.

He stared at me for a long moment, then pointed to a narrow street. ‘That way, but you best hurry. The last tram leaves soon.’

I thanked him and left, but his words struck me as odd. I walked down the deserted alley, and at the end, I saw the tram again, waiting, its headlights off. My legs moved of their own accord, and I climbed aboard. This time, the interior was bright, sterile, and filled with people, but they were all facing forward, motionless. The conductor was a new one, a younger man with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He took my coin and punched my ticket, and I found a seat. The tram rattled along the tracks, and I noticed that the streets outside were not of my city; they were wider, lined with trees, and the buildings had a different architecture, as if I had been transported to another place entirely.

It was then that I looked down at my hands, and they were not my hands. They were older, gnarled, with a ring on the finger that I did not recognize. Panic seized me, and I tried to stand, but the passengers turned their heads in unison, their faces blank, their eyes void. ‘You missed your stop,’ the conductor said, his voice flat and echoing. ‘Your stop is at the end.’

I woke with a jolt, my forehead pressed against the cold glass of a real tram window. The No. 9 was pulling into the station, and the conductor was calling my stop. I stumbled off, my heart pounding, and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. The walk back to my room was brisk, and I did not look back. But as I lay in bed that night, I could feel the ghost of that other tram, lingering on the edges of my consciousness. And even now, decades later, whenever I close my eyes and hear the clatter of wheels on rails, I am drawn back to that foggy night, wondering if the last tram is still running, and if it will ever let me off.

I never rode the No. 7 line again, but sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear its distant whistle, calling me home. And I know that one day, I will step onto that platform again, and this time, the tram will be waiting for me.